


Poetry

by Selenic



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Poetry, Woolsey POV, background mcshep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-30
Updated: 2019-05-30
Packaged: 2020-03-29 18:54:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19025884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenic/pseuds/Selenic
Summary: Woolsey finds out his love of poetry is shared by Ronon, and Ronon shows that it doesn't have to be the only thing they have in common.





	Poetry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [esteefee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/gifts).



> This story got started several years back when I learned there's a deleted scene somewhere that mentions Ronon used to write poetry when still living on Sateda. In my head it sounded like poetry could be something he and Woolsey had in common :) When I mentioned having an idea for a Ronon/Woolsey story, esteefee enthusiastically encouraged me to write it, so I wanted to make it happen. Sorry I kept you waiting for this long, hope you enjoy this at least a bit ^_^
> 
> Finished for the Story Works Spring Cleaning challenge. I claim no knowledge of poetry, so to anyone who really does, my apologies. Unbetad, all mistakes are mine.

 

Poetry

 

"Here’s my report," Ronon said as the recorder landed on the desk, the sharp sound interrupting Woolsey’s quiet moment of literary reverie between afternoon meetings. Seeing the small device proved that it had indeed been a wise choice to opt for a model with a more robust outer casing, as the ill-treated thing was already showing signs of wear and tear after only a few weeks in use.

Woolsey set down the book he'd been reading—wholly expecting the tall Satedan to have made his usual, swift exit from the office—only to find Ronon's face right behind the worn covers. Evidently he had crouched down to look at the title, which was almost too faded with age to make out, and now as the book rested open on the table Ronon's gaze began to drift over the pages.

"Poetry?" Ronon asked, and Woolsey noted it was with sincere interest. Guessing the type of content was hardly difficult for anyone with the least amount of knowledge of literature, especially with the measured structure of the lines. Certainly easier than trying to determine why exactly they had caught Ronon's eye.

"Yes, sonnets in fact, by Shakespeare," Woolsey replied, slightly perplexed, but intrigued as well. "One of the most famous of poets and playwrights in Earth's history, and these are some of his most praised and loved pieces." Woolsey idly caressed the pages with his fingertips, and the verses he knew so well by now. "How he managed to touch the human soul, to convey such depth of emotion within the confines of the strict rules of a sonnet, never ceases to amaze me. Not to mention the varied ways the poems can be interpreted, leaving even noted scholars of this day arguing over the true meaning behind Shakespeare's words."

Woolsey looked up from the book and noticed Ronon had done the same, and was now watching him with sudden keenness, eyes alight with gentle amusement. Woolsey realized how obvious his love for poetry must have been, and how infatuated with the author he must have sounded. In his youth he certainly had been, and had even secretly aspired to become a poet himself until the enticing world of law had won over his heart. But old loves don't die easily, and now it appeared that this particular one had been on full display for Ronon to see. While Woolsey was by no means embarrassed, being the subject of Ronon’s sudden interest still brought a subtle heat to his cheeks.

He might not have written poems to any 'Fair Youth', but while Shakespeare's devotion towards men might be under debate for generations to come, Woolsey's awareness of his own was had been a solid fact ever since Tommy Jordan had kissed him on a dare in the boys locker-room in high school. Though a cautious man like Woolsey did not advertise his orientation—and had in fact found members of the opposite sex attractive enough to even foolishly marry one, albeit briefly—he was certainly not immune to the charms of the man before him. Now Woolsey could not help but wonder what other hidden depths lay beneath Ronon's rugged-seeming exterior.

"Ronon, you ready?" Colonel Sheppard suddenly called out from the walkway leading to the office, breaking the awkwardly lengthy silence Woolsey had fallen into. Sheppard was waiting in his training gear, ready for a run or some sparring perhaps. Ronon rose to his full height and told Sheppard to go ahead and start the warm-up. Then he turned back to Woolsey.

"Can I borrow this?" he asked, a warm smile on his lips as he cautiously laid his fingers on the edge of the open book. Sharing the page with Ronon suddenly became oddly intimate, and for a few distracting seconds Woolsey contemplated whether the feel of Ronon's sun-loved skin would in any way resemble the silken, worn paper.

"Oh, by all means," Woolsey replied, hesitating only minutely before pulling his hand back and pushing aside both his wandering thoughts and his worry over relinquishing the rather rare edition into Ronon's care. Surely a man who showed an interest in poetry would now how to treat such a treasure, even if he occasionally mishandled other things.

"I would be honoured to play my part in introducing you to Shakespeare's work," Woolsey continued more confidently, "I hope you will enjoy the experience." Perhaps he would even get a chance to discuss the sonnets with Ronon later. Woolsey couldn't remember when he'd last had an intellectually inspiring conversation, or any conversation at all that wasn't somehow work related. He rarely found time in his current, busy life for discourse merely social in nature.

Ronon carefully closed the book and lifted it to his chest. He nodded his thank you and headed out, his gait as laid-back and graceful as ever. Woolsey watched him go, then sighed and shook his head quietly. As fascinating as the interruption had been, he should get back to work—the equipment acquisition forms to the SGC did not fill themselves, and they seemed to secretly multiply whenever Woolsey left his desk. In any case, it would be best to retain a professional distance with those under his leadership, and not succumb to daydreaming. But he would still allow himself another, undoubtedly brief reprieve. Woolsey picked up the digital recorder and began to listen, smiling softly as Ronon's deep voice rolled on.

_"Mission report. Went to meet the Charati with Sheppard, McKay and Teyla. Teyla negotiated a trading agreement, the rest of us were taken on a boring tour of the village farms. The food was good though, and the people were friendly. Nothing else happened, we came back to Atlantis. End of report."_

Ronon might be sparing with words, but his reports were some of the most accurate Woolsey got, and that was something the busy leader of Atlantis highly valued.

 

~~~

 

For the rest of the day Woolsey almost forgot all about the incident. Yet in the brief pools of calm that appeared in the tumultuous stream of things requiring his attention, the curve of that smile and the look in those eyes returned to his mind, causing him to pause. Each occurrence brought along a warm sense of wonderment, of roused curiosity mingling with slowly awakening interest of the kind Woolsey had recently been forced to put aside. As pleasant as the feeling was, it also carried a note of wistfulness that Woolsey was not accustomed to. He didn't regret the life he had lived, but perhaps a part of him nonetheless lamented over the fact that he was alone.

His unusual state had not gone unnoticed by others either, though Doctor McKay had been the only one to actually blurt something out loud, just before Sheppard had dragged him away from the office. McKay had been exaggerating of course—Woolsey had sighed only once, or maybe twice, not every other second—but it had nevertheless been a valid observation. So Woolsey had decided it would be best to retire to his quarters, to get some long overdue rest, and to take his mind off distracting things, and people.

He barely had time to settle in for the evening, just enough to unzip his jacket and pour himself a well earned glass of wine, when someone knocked loudly on his door. Woolsey sighed, this time more with weariness than anything. He carefully placed the wine glass on a table beside the comfortable armchair he’d meant to relax in, and gave both of them one last, longing look before turning towards the door.

"Come in," Woolsey called out, trying not to sound as tired as he felt. The door opened to reveal Ronon, standing quietly by the entrance.

Though Woolsey had swiftly come to learn that unexpected interruptions were more of a norm than an anomaly on Atlantis, he was rarely as surprised by them as now. Usually the ones to disturb Woolsey's evening were either Sheppard or McKay, sometimes both at once. They often neglected to knock too. This visitor had not come by even once before.

Ronon waited for a moment then stepped in, the door sliding shut behind him.

"Just came to bring this back, turns out I can't read it," Ronon said, and though on the surface he might have appeared unmoved by the matter, Woolsey thought he detected a faint trace of disappointment. The initial shock having passed, Woolsey noticed that Ronon was still carrying the book he had asked for earlier, fingers curled around the spine as he gently pressed it against his chest. There was something inexplicably fascinating in the contradiction, of a strong hand so used to fighting holding something so lightly, as if it was precious beyond measure. Woolsey found it hard to look away.

Ronon walked up to him, but made no immediate move to hand the book over. In fact, he seemed almost reluctant to let go of it.

"You can’t read it? How come?" Woolsey asked, mentally shaking himself free of his trance and looking up at Ronon. "I was under the impression that the Gate translated the written word as well as speech." He knew Dr. Elizabeth Weir had once written some sort of an explanation on the matter, but truth be told, since there was still so much to learn about Atlantis Woolsey hadn't yet had the opportunity to peruse the subject thoroughly. He had simply assumed that translating one would be equal to the other considering the advanced level of Ancient technology.

"Guess it doesn’t," Ronon said, frowning slightly and rubbing his neck with his free hand. "McKay said something about the ' _translation matrix not being able to handle the connotations without the help of a living mind to interpret them_ '." Ronon delivered the last lines with very McKay-like annoyance, the kind aimed at people who in his opinion should have posed such a trivial question to someone less busy, and Woolsey could not help but smile a little.

"Ah, how unfortunate," Woolsey replied, his gaze falling on the cautiously held book again, sincerely sorry that Ronon would be deprived of the wonders held within. He almost reached out to touch it, but caught himself before his hand could move. "But it speaks well of your rapport with Doctor McKay that he was willing to explain the matter," Woolsey continued.

"Would you read some of it for me?" Ronon asked unexpectedly. Woolsey's mouth started to open for an answer, but he was struck by sudden apprehension.

The question in itself was innocent, and to say yes should have been no matter for debate. Yet Woolsey hesitated. He had read poetry, in front of small audiences, aloud to himself, but never to a single person, to one attentive listener. A situation like that had always seemed to require a level of intimacy he had not been ready for. Poems were not merely recited—they were to be imbued with emotion, to be brought to life for the listener so that they might partake in the experience of the author. To thus perform to a sole recipient would be like aiming those emotions toward them.

"I can ask someone else—" Ronon started when the silence between them began to stretch out again.

"No!" Woolsey's head snapped up as he interjected fervently, for reasons he was not entirely sure of, other than the fear that Ronon really would ask someone else, someone not as well versed in the Master's work as Woolsey was. Or even worse, someone who had no love for poetry at all. Woolsey shuddered briefly.

"I mean, there’s no need to," Woolsey replied more calmly to Ronon, who had raised a questioning eyebrow after Woolsey's outburst. "I would be more than happy to read for you."

"Now?" Ronon asked, and somehow Woolsey couldn't bear the thought of denying him after the earlier setback. So he gestured towards the seats around the coffee table. A wide smile spread across Ronon's face, so open and genuine in its joy and warmth, and Woolsey could feel his mouth attempt to replicate a somewhat restrained version of it.

As Woolsey took a seat in the armchair near the head of the low coffee table, Ronon strode around to the couch alongside it and took a seat. He reverently handed the book to Woolsey, then closed his eyes and leaned back to listen.

The book still carried the residual warmth of being held by Ronon, right where his hand had gripped the spine, and Woolsey let his fingers tenderly slide over it. He still wasn't sure what he was getting into with this, but having the opportunity to share his love of poetry with someone was too tempting to ignore. He leafed through the pages until he came upon one of the more famous sonnets, a poem he had already recited in public on several occasions and which he could read through with more ease. He took a moment to find the sentiments suitable for the poem, cleared his throat a little nervously, and began to read.

 

_"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_

_Thou art more lovely, and more temperate._

_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,_

_And summer’s lease hath all too short a date—"_

 

With each word his initial uneasiness faded, and Woolsey let the emotions of the sonnet carry him forward. Ronon was quiet, but Woolsey didn't dare to risk a glimpse at his reactions, lest he lose his concentration. He put all his effort into making the poem come to life, hoping his delivery would be sufficient to carry the beauty of it through the translation process. All too soon he reached the final lines.

 

_"—So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,_

_So long lives this, and this gives life to thee."_

 

When he finished, Woolsey thought he could hear a faint sigh from Ronon's direction. Peering over the book, Woolsey saw Ronon remained as he were, eyes closed, but his brow furrowed with concentration.

“Beauty, love, longing,” Ronon said quietly. “Loneliness.” He opened his eyes, and stared ahead of him as if lost in thought.

“Is that what you heard?” Woolsey asked, a little concerned by the last part. He hadn’t intended to give the feeling that the author had been lonely, only to convey his love and adoration, and the desire to immortalize with his poem the person he held close to his heart.

“Not in the words,” Ronon said, “but they way you spoke them.” He turned to look at Woolsey with those keen eyes again, as if searching for something, and Woolsey wondered how much of the truth they could actually see.

“Then consider it a failing on my part,” Woolsey said, closing the book but still holding on to it, like a shield protecting him. It must have been his earlier speculations about his own loneliness that had altered the performance. As he sought for a way to express this Ronon began to speak, and suddenly his low, steady voice was all Woolsey could focus on.

 

_Endless is the morn'_

_In the dream where you lay beside me_

_The soft gold of first light the angel's halo_

 

_Thy touch is my dawn,_

_Banishing the dark from my skin_

_The warmth of thy kiss spilling into me_

 

_Yet the cold of the earth is beneath me_

_And the shadows of the night behind me_

_Laying their claim on me as I waken_

 

Ronon paused for just a fraction, almost too short a time to notice, but enough to reveal a deeper truth.

 

_Endless is the morn'_

_In fading mem'ry's eye_

_That forever seeks to recall thy face_

 

Even though it must not have been a perfect translation, Woolsey could feel the ache and loss in each word as if they were his own. Beauty, love, longing—and loneliness. In the silence that now remained they became all too real, too personal, as if Woolsey ha intruded upon something he shouldn’t have. After all he had read Ronon’s file, as he had for all Atlantis personnel, and so he knew of Ronon’s past on Sateda. He must have loved Melena very deeply.

“You wrote that,” Woolsey said, just to push aside the lingering emotions he had no right to claim as his own. Ronon simply nodded, and nothing in his expression showed whether the pain was still fresh to him, or if he had only summoned the memory of it for this occasion. “Forgive me, I did not mean to—“ Woolsey began to apologize, but was cut short.

“No need,” Ronon said, shaking his head and smiling again. “I’m glad I got to share it with someone.” His voice was sincere enough, as was the warmth in his eyes. Woolsey nodded his reply. If Ronon so wished, Woolsey would leave the matter be.

"Then, shall I read some more?" Woolsey suggested to change the subject. “I also have works of other poets to choose from.” Something less likely to call up sad memories. But before Woolsey could even lay the book down, Ronon was next to him, trapping his fingers between the soft leather of the covers and the coarser skin of Ronon’s palm. For a fleeting second Woolsey was both stunned and amazed by the stealthy switch from one position to another.

"Later," Ronon said, and then all thought was wiped away by his kiss.

Woolsey had almost forgotten how good it felt to be kissed like this—long, slow, thorough—an unhurried exploration of his mouth that awakened every nerve until you wanted to believe that coming just from the touch of that tongue on yours was well within the realm of possible. Had Woolsey been a number of decades younger, he probably would have. Then again, the merit of age was that he could enjoy this for all that it was worth. So he gave into the pleasure.

When Ronon finally stopped, leaving Woolsey’s mouth pleasantly aching for more, he let those perceptive eyes wander upon Woolsey’s features which undoubtedly revealed arousal but also puzzlement.

"Did I misread your interest?" Ronon asked, yet still slid onto Woolsey’s lap, straddling him in the mercifully wide armchair. The scent of him was like a day in the sun with a hint of spices, and the heat of him pushed through fabric and into skin.

"No, I was just..." For once Woolsey was at a loss for words. The hardness that rubbed against the bulge in Woolsey’s own pants proved that Ronon had found the previous experience equally pleasurable, which certainly evoked a sense of pride and satisfaction. Yet Woolsey couldn’t avoid the question.

"Why?"

"Wanted to," Ronon replied as if it was all the reason he needed. He gingerly removed the book from Woolsey’s unresisting hand, and placed it gently on the side table.

“I meant why me?” Woolsey rephrased. “Not to complain or sell myself short by any means, but surely others have shown an interest in you as well?” Woolsey wasn’t prone to doubting his ability to attract others—he had learned long ago that confidence and competence had their own, particular sexual appeal. Neither was he against what was happening, quite the opposite in fact. But he’d rarely been approached by someone so far outside his usual circles.

“You’re passionate about what you do,” Ronon replied, his hand sneaking between them to cup Woolsey’s groin and he lowered his mouth to Woolsey’s ear. “You love and respect rules and laws, but would bend or maybe even break them for those you want to protect.” His fingers tightened ever so slightly, but with clear intention. “Your people...” Ronon’s mouth travelled down Woolsey’s neck as he spoke, pausing occasionally to nip at skin. “The people of Pegasus galaxy...” Each time a tremor ran through Woolsey’s spine, ending up as a twitching reaction against Ronon’s palm. “Me.” Ronon applied more gentle pressure with his hand while his tongue spread heat into the dip above a collarbone, and a quiet sound of pleasure slipped out of Woolsey’s mouth. Ronon hummed against his neck, clearly satisfied with the reaction.

“And you love poetry,” he said, pausing his actions. “You intrigue me, and I want to see what else you can get passionate about, _Richard_.” The name came out as a resonant, low purr, nearly vowelless, and the vibrations reverberated through Woolsey’s entire body in delectable waves. Ronon rose to meet his eyes again, no longer observing but revealing instead his own need and desire. It was searing.

If ever Woolsey wished he had poetic talent it was in moments like these, so he too could immortalize in words the fierce beauty before him—the shameless fire of want, the pure joy of being alive, the intense focus on this one moment. Woolsey wanted to touch what he could not describe, wished to pull Ronon closer so he might taste that desire that was both divine and dissolute. But he could already hear the chatter of a familiar pair out in the hallway, making their so far most inappropriately timed approach toward the door and the scene within. Ronon must have heard them too, but he would not move, pinning Woolsey to the armchair with his weight.

“Let them see,” he said, grabbing Woolsey’s t-shirt and pulling the hem out from his pants. His heated fingers now had access to bare skin in addition to Woolsey’s ever more impatient erection, and they were fast eroding the last remnants of Woolsey’s composure. “They won’t think any less of you for it,” Ronon told him while nonchalantly continuing his exploration, uncaring of their impending discovery, and Woolsey realized that Ronon was not only observant, but insightful as well.

 _Ah, I see_ , Woolsey thought. _So that’s how it is_. His worry had nothing to do with anyone finding out his preference was men, but how his actions would affect his image as a leader. It had not been an easy task to step into the space left by Elizabeth Weir and Samantha Carter, especially for someone so used to doing things by the book. But with the help of the people around him, he was learning, and would never misjudge them like this again.

“Thank you,” he said, the simple words sufficing for now. He would better express his gratitude to Ronon, among other things, a little later on, and he was eagerly looking forward to it. Then the door opened, and McKay and Sheppard walked in.

“Look, Sheppard, I’m telling you—“ Rodney was talking full blast, too absorbed in the subject of the discussion to notice anything immediately. The side of Woolsey that out of habit tried to act formally shuddered, but Ronon’s inescapable presence forbade it from surfacing.

“Rodney,” Colonel Sheppard tried to interrupt McKay, and by the sound of it he’d been quicker on the uptake than the busily explaining scientist. The corner of Ronon’s mouth lifted rather wickedly, and he slowly removed his intervening hand so he could grind their hardened cocks together. Woolsey smiled too.

“There’s no way we can make it work without the added naquadah generators, and we need to request at least three—”

“Rodney!” The chatter stopped. Usually even McKay’s silence had a way of speaking volumes, but this one was filled with surprised blankness. Sheppard politely cleared his throat, just in case they hadn’t made a noisy enough entry to be noticed. Woolsey turned to give them a long, hard stare, while Ronon concentrated on creating delicious, devilish friction.

“Gentlemen,” Woolsey announced to their unexpected visitors. Dr. McKay looked fairly dazed, whereas Colonel Sheppard tried to hold a poker face without quite succeeding “As you can see I am rather busy at the moment, so I would appreciate if you could either come see me at a more appropriate time, or send me your request through the official channels and I will look into it at my earliest convenience.” Then he smiled, in the polite manner one does when you want to make it absolutely clear you have the authority to take away not only your toys but your coffee rations as well. In rare situations, or with certain types of people, a slight abuse of power or at least the threat of it could in Woolsey’s opinion be considered almost acceptable. “I would also appreciate if you would learn how to knock.”

McKay’s expression went through several phases, starting from shock and disbelief, and ending up in annoyance that something as trivial as this was to interrupt his work. Sheppard on the other hand only seemed to give Ronon a brief questioning look, but after Ronon just grinned at him, the Colonel shrugged his shoulders and smirked, as if saying ‘whatever, you two have fun’.

“Sure, we’ll do that,” he said out loud, and started dragging McKay back through the door.

“Make sure he locks the door,” Ronon called out to him, and Sheppard signalled a ‘will do’ with a look.

“What? But this is important!” McKay protested, but followed him out nonetheless.

“Not that important, Rodney,” Sheppard simply said, and he was still wearing that smile. “Besides,” he added just as they were leaving, “I think we should follow our leader’s example and make better use of our off-duty hours.”

“Oh?” McKay said, and then a second later again but with another, quite more revealing tone. “Oh...” Through the gap of the closing door Woolsey caught a glimpse of Sheppard pulling McKay in for a short, fiery kiss. Soon after a sound indicated the door had been locked, probably very firmly.

“Finally,” Ronon huffed impatiently, and bent down to catch Woolsey’s mouth.

The ensuing kiss was just as passionate as the previous one, and now that all his concerns had been resolved, Woolsey gave into it whole-heartedly and freely. There were times when you needed to be a leader, and others when you needed to be just a man. His body agreed, waking fully to its hunger.

“Enough teasing,” he declared and attacked Ronon’s belt buckle, and then his own. Their kisses became rushed and eager as they both struggled with buttons and zippers until their aching cocks were free from constraints. Ronon grabbed Woolsey’s hand and brought it to his mouth, sucking on his fingers and licking on his palm, making everything slick with saliva while staring at Woolsey with burning eyes. Nothing had ever turned Woolsey on like the sight before him. Then Ronon wrapped those wet fingers around both cocks, his own hand closing around Woolsey’s, and started to move, thrusting into that slick palm, sliding against Woolsey’s cock with a hasty rhythm.

It took barely a minute until Woolsey came, with Ronon not far behind, his release joining the mess on Woolsey’s shirt and chest. For a moment they both just stared at each other, breathless and sated. Then they grinned. Once was definitely not going to be enough.

“Again,” Ronon growled huskily, and leaned in for another kiss, languid but still hungry. “I’m going to ride you ‘till you’re dry.” Woolsey’s cock started twitching back to life again, acting happily younger than his age.

“Then I shall accept the challenge,” Woolsey responded boldly, not caring whether his body could fulfil his promise or not. He would just seize the moment and enjoy it. _And summer’s lease hath all too short a date_. “Let’s see what poetry our bodies can make.” Ronon didn’t need any further encouragement.

After a few hours, they even managed to make it all the way to the bedroom.

 

 

~~~ End ~~~

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poem Woolsey recites is [Shakespeare's Sonnet 18](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sonnet_18), a part of a collection of sonnets written to a 'Fair Youth' which at least according to some sources was a young man Shakespeare loved or was infatuated with.
> 
> The poem Ronon recites is made up by me, so if you think he sucks at poetry it's my fault :D
> 
>  
> 
> (and formatting poetry to look good was such a pain...)


End file.
